


i know you're always on the night shift

by Variant



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Sex Work, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-27 08:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6276298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Variant/pseuds/Variant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is absolutely, one hundred percent, a shameless and self-indulgent excuse to write about camboy!Peter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you don't gotta go to work

**Author's Note:**

> I just saw Deadpool. And then I went home and re-watched TASM. And then I went out and watched Deadpool again. "Ryan Reynolds and Andrew Garfield would be so cute together!" I thought to myself, pointedly ignoring whoever Marvel casts as Spider-Man in the MCU. 
> 
> Title taken from "Work From Home" by Fifth Harmony. Unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own. I don't own these characters, but if I did, Spideypool would be canon by now.

Living in New York City isn’t cheap. Especially if you are still trucking through your first year of college with no stable income in sight beyond what your parents left behind for you, which really only covers tuition and rent for the glorified shoebox you call home. Having a sometimes-job at the Daily Bugle helps – I mean, really, Peter was essentially being paid a couple hundred dollars for _selfies_ – which pays for meagre groceries, his cell phone bill, and sewing supplies for his suit. Beyond that, he’s lucky if he has enough left over to catch a movie or order a pizza.

He can’t get a part-time job, as it takes away from homework time and his patrol hours. He once tried working early morning shifts at a coffee shop a block away from his apartment, but he was almost always wiped from Spidey-work the night before. It isn’t comfortable, and Peter is stretched far too thin every month, but he has to make do.

Until he can’t.

A fight he lost against something vaguely extraterrestrial leaves him with bruised ribs, pulled muscles, deep, open wounds, and internal bleeding. It knocks him out for 28 hours, and he wakes up disoriented on a rooftop down the street from where the battle took place, joints dislocated and head pounding. He avoids going to the hospital until his injuries cause him to lose a fight the next night, and the subsequent bill for taking care of his broken bones and the administered painkillers nearly makes him pass out a second time.

He is late on rent that month.

He lives off Top Ramen and isn’t allowed to physically exert himself until he’s better. While he does heal fast, being moderately superhuman and all, fueling your weakened body with instant noodles and tap water doesn’t do much to assist in the process. And at the risk of reinjuring himself, he’s off patrolling for a while. He thanks whatever deity is out there that the crime scene has been unusually slow, and whatever does happen to pop up is swiftly dealt with by the Avengers. But not doing any work as Spider-Man means no pictures for the Bugle, and no pictures means no groceries.

So he’s late on rent the next month as well.

Gwen figures it out fast. She buys him breakfast and coffee every morning before class, dropping by his place once or twice a week because she’s ‘just in the neighbourhood’ and ‘happened to be carrying Tupperware containers of leftovers’ and ‘wasn’t it the funniest coincidence?’. Once in a while, after she leaves, he finds neatly folded twenty-dollar bills under the cup she used, or under couch cushions. He’s too desperate to say no, and she’s too stubborn to have listened, anyway. But he can’t rely on her forever.

When he finds out Aunt May had quietly dropped off a check to his landlord to cover his ass into the third month of being flat broke, he knew he had to do something. By the time he’s healed up and back in action, criminal activity is at a standstill. In two weeks, all Spider-Man has been able to do is stop a robbery at a Jewish deli, for which the storeowners paid him back with four corned beef sandwiches. Hardly news-worthy, and nothing Mr. Jameson would pay money for. And that’s how he ended up here.

With a deep breath, he forces a smile onto his face and turns his webcam on.

 

-

“You do have options.” The kind, older lady in the ESU financial aid office tells him. In her office, she has him fill out a dozen applications for scholarships and bursaries that would be a breeze to obtain, with his grades, but they still take time to process.

“I was kind of looking for something more… Immediate.” He says, fidgeting with the pen between his fingers. “And steady. Just until I get all my debts sorted out.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Parker. Beyond directing you to some of the paid apprenticeships or compensated volunteer opportunities, I’ve given you all the help we can offer.” She frowns apologetically. “Are you certain you wouldn’t be interested in participating in the school’s clinical research trials? They’re funded and supervised by highly trained medical staff. Healthy young man like yourself, you should have no problem being screened. It’s just a quick blood test and you’ll be up a hundred dollars.”

He chuckles nervously. “I’m, uh, no good with needles.” Or being caught with slightly arachnid blood.

She nods in understanding. “Do you have any assets of value? Appliances or electronics you don’t use that you could possibly sell?”

Peter shakes his head. “I don’t have any gaming consoles or anything – I don’t even have a TV. I need my laptop for school and my camera for work, and I’ve already sold my extra lenses. I don’t take public transit either, I just bike everywhere.” He lets out a shaky sigh. “I’ve almost paid off the hospital bills but I’m still a couple months behind on rent.”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Parker. I truly am.” She says again. “Off the record, there must be some cash-paying odd jobs you can do. Try Craigslist?”

That night, over a dinner of two bananas and off-brand mac and cheese, he idly scrolls through the want ads online. He keeps an eye out for tutoring opportunities, as that seems most suited for his skillset. He sends out a few emails, and a dozen more when he expands his scope to look for people who need help moving, need dog-walkers, or need help around the house. A lot of the postings are pretty sketchy, saying _‘clothing is optional’_ and _‘be 18+ and good at massages’_. Others are simply titled _“Shave Me”_ or _“Are you lactating? ;)”_. Absent-mindedly, he clicks on an ad that promises a thousand dollars a night. It sounds like bullshit, and probably is – and his suspicions are confirmed when he sees the words _ESCORT AGENCY_ in bold at the top of the page. He sighs, sitting back in bed and balefully shoving more tasteless macaroni into his mouth.

There isn’t anything wrong with being a sex worker. He knows enough of them, after having to help his fair share throughout his time as Spider-Man. But it wasn’t something he could just _do_. He’s not shy about his body, he’s actually quite proud of the lean muscle he packed on over the past year, but he just can’t imagine laying back for a faceless old man to have his way with him. Or having a stranger’s dick in his throat. Or trying to sound as convincing as possible when he begs the anonymous man to destroy his virgin ass.

That’s another thing. Save for his own wandering fingers, Peter’s still a virgin.

He imagines he wouldn’t be by now, because he’d be with Gwen, if only he was inclined that way. She would have been a great girlfriend; too smart, too beautiful, too caring. Too good for him, if he has to be honest with himself. The split-second of disappointment on her face that was quickly replaced by understanding and fondness when he came out to her at the end of senior year, he’d never forget that.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because he’s never had sex with a man and he doesn’t want his first time to come with a tip. Pun unintended.

When he sits back up and moves to exit the browser window, he catches the subscript at the bottom of the page.

_‘TOO SHY TO WORK WITH CLIENTS? WE STILL HAVE OPPORTUNITIES FOR YOU! SIGN UP NOW TO BE A CAMGIRL OR CAMBOY! HOST YOUR LIVESTREAM ON OUR WEBSITE WITH OVER 1 MILLION REGISTERED USERS! SET YOUR OWN HOURS AND PRICES, WORK FROM THE COMFORT AND SAFETY OF YOUR OWN HOME! BE AS EXPOSED OR ANONYMOUS AS YOU WANT! PAYMENTS ARE DIRECTLY DEPOSITED INTO YOUR ACCOUNT EVERY MONDAY! WE GIVE YOU A WEBCAM, YOU GIVE US A SHOW!’_

Now, that, he has to admit, that’s doable.

 

-

 

The stream flickers to life and Peter sees himself, from his mouth to his waist, on the screen. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, he offers a shy wave to the camera.

 

(Somewhere across town, Wade Wilson is on his laptop, credit card in one hand and lotion in the other.)


	2. but you gotta put in work

You know that feeling of watching a child grow up? Seeing them go through the stages of life, constantly learning and developing important skills? Watching their transformation from a sweet, innocent thing, untainted by the cold and cruel world, into a strong, smart, powerful person with hopes and dreams and ambitions? You know that overwhelming pride that damn near makes you choke up when you see them take their first steps into the world beyond the one they’ve known, out of their comfort zone, ready to take on life and make a difference?

Wade feels like that, but in a sick and twisted way. Because it’s not a child; it’s a faceless camboy who’s streams he’s been watching religiously for the past four months. A guy who once started out nervous and camera-shy, and is now bouncing on a pink, glittery dildo like he’s riding the last horse out of the apocalypse and openly moaning the name of the highest bidder. So yeah, Wade does still feel proud of him. Again, in a sick and twisted way.

-

He finds the kid accidentally.

When he has time off, which is usually between jobs or when he’s waiting around one of his safe houses while he regenerates a new limb, Wade does what any other red-blooded Canadian male does on a night-in; order Chinese food and touch himself. This time, he’s missing a foot – his favourite one, to make matters worse – so he props up his stump of a leg on the futon in one of his seven safe houses, spills Yeung Chow fried rice all over his suit, and boots up the shitty old laptop he swiped off a guy who tried to shoot him in the neck instead of paying him after a completed hit.

His homepage is, unsurprisingly, his favourite amateur porn site. It’s run by an escort agency in the city, and nothing gives him the warm fuzzies like supporting local businesses. And his ex-girlfriend may be the popular streamer _Copycat_616,_ but that’s neither here nor there. Paying ten bucks to look at her ass from afar is well worth her not getting kidnapped by whoever’s trying to kill him that week.

He clicks around and ends up on the _Newcummers_ page, pauses in silent contemplation, then filters the search results for _Fresh Meat_ – or, males. At one in the morning on a Tuesday night, the pickings are slim. There are just over twenty guys hosting their live shows, and when he filters by age – under thirty – the list of channels drops down by half.

One of the thumbnails catches his eye. It looks too polished, too professional, not one of those grainy webcam shots you usually see. It’s a black and white photo of a man’s torso as he lays on his side in bed, a white sheet artfully ruffled and tastefully draping over the goods. Despite his slender frame, his biceps are well defined and his chest and stomach are perfectly toned. Wade doesn’t have a ‘type’, but if he did, this would be a strong contender.

He sets the Styrofoam container of food down, sits up, and undoes enough of his suit to be able to get his junk out if he needs to. Just in case. It turns out being a good call because he spends the next ten minutes being teased to no end. The kid has quite the body, even if he doesn’t quite know what to do with it yet. It takes him ages to work up the courage to take his boxers all the way off, but the wait is well worth it.

Framed by short brown curls of pubic hair, his erection is flushed pink and leaves a wet smear across his skin when it bounces against his abdomen. Strong, tight thighs fill the screen and his ass—god, his _ass—_ it sits high and tight, muscled with the slightest hint of a bounce.

Wade doesn’t realize he’s coming until he gets white all over the keyboard. His toes curl, even the ones on his dinky little half-formed foot, and he lets out a deep breath as he falls back onto the futon.

By the time he collects himself, the show is over. He subscribes to the streamer, who’s listed as _AndyG_ , _19/M/NYC_ , and charitably sends him a hundred dollars. He just got paid, so why not? He sees that the kid is also available for pictures and private videos, but no texting or private shows. He can make do. He attaches another ten dollars and requests a custom picture of _‘DAT SWEET BEHIND, IT COULD MAKE A GROWN MAN CRY!!’_ because he is a thorough believer in love at first sight.

It shows up in his inbox a day later, a high-resolution photo of the guy bent over with the tiniest peek of his hole between full, firm cheeks. It’s in such high quality, he can see the soft peach fuzz over his skin, the thin sheen of sweat on his lower back before his tapered waist gives way to the curve of his bottom. There’s a freckle on the small of his back and another one teasing him from his inner thigh. His balls and soft cock hang in the space between his thighs.

 _This isn’t porn,_ he thinks reverently to himself. _This is fucking art._

Wade could sing to it. Take it out for a steak dinner. Pledge his life to it. Print it out in poster-size and put it on his wall.

He does the last thing, to the dismay of the staff at the nearby Staples.

On display in Safe House #4, it serves as a comforting reminder that life is beautiful and there are things worth living for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a short one, but I had to get all the intros out of the way before the real "plot" (what a joke) can kick in. I am so, so, so sorry I've been away. I got caught up in school and I literally have an exam every week until April 25th. But after that, writing can have my full attention again. I've also made the fic a chapter longer, and next time I update, spideypool will finally meet. Kind of. You'll see. Thanks for sticking with me!


	3. let my body do the work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Remember me? (Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.)

The first stream goes as badly as one would expect. Out of frame, out of focus, insecure and hesitant, Peter isn’t surprised at the pitiful number of viewers. He spends a few hours watching amateur videos, writing down ideas and cataloguing possible poses, and only has to pause twice to masturbate – a night well spent. The second attempt goes much more smoothly and his slightly shaky hands even manage to get him off, directed by the viewers in the chat. He ignores the more extreme requests and agrees to the gentler ones; _take your shirt off, rub your nipples, suck on your fingers_ , that sort of thing. Though the shot is cut off just below his nose, his reddened cheeks are very apparent, and endearing enough to earn him a bit of money and a few dozen subscribers.

The attention, the praise, the lewd words… With every show he puts on, the more he finds himself drawn to it. His confidence builds and the cruel, bold words of faceless clients stop being so jarring. Being told what to do and how to do it, it’s surprisingly hot – which he files away as one of the many new things he’s learned about himself throughout this entire ordeal. While accepting and fulfilling the growing number of requests for photos and videos, he finds he’s also into edging, being called sweet, feminine petnames, and okay, _maybe_ wearing thigh-high socks gets him off like nothing else, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, he’s getting a lot from these experiences and he counts that as a win.

And the paychecks ain’t too bad now, either.

It was a slow start, for sure. After the first two weeks, he didn’t even meet the minimum threshold of fifty dollars to cash out, so the meagre twenty-three dollars he earned from a few lukewarm shows sat in his account, taunting him, until he got the email that some generous stranger named _CaptainDP_ threw a hundred dollars his way.

Peter almost fell out of his chair.

The notification also came with a simple request – which he dutifully spent a solid three hours on, taking dozens of photos in different angles, playing with the lighting and composition, editing and re-editing until he was satisfied. Well, not satisfied. More like, finally desensitized to the sight of his own asshole.

Now, he still puts the same amount of effort and care into his answered requests, but finds that he can just as easily get by on his pre-packaged photosets. Sometimes they’re the extra shots from requests that didn’t quite make the cut, sometimes he just snaps a few shots while he gets ready for his next live show, and sometimes he just feels like jerking off and wants to exploit the fact that his come-splattered abs look _really_ good. Regardless, the money starts coming in at a steady rate, and it keeps him afloat.

He eventually takes Aunt May and Gwen out for dinner and makes something up about a late-night stockroom shift he picked up. He buys back the camera lenses he sold, upgrades his laptop and cell phone, buys an external hard drive to store the near-terabytes of pictures and videos he’s racked up _._ He gets better bed sheets and fitted, brand-name boxer briefs. It’s an investment, he tells himself. _For work_. He splits his time between patrolling and working; working when the nights are slow, patrolling when he’s just not in the mood to work.

At one point a while back, he figured he could afford to turn a request down, and then another, because slowly but surely, his debts start getting paid off. It’s not entirely thanks to the elusive _CaptainDP_ , but he certainly doesn’t hurt the cause. He’ll show up for Peter’s streams more often than not, watching but never saying a word in the chat, and sends fifty, a hundred, sometimes three hundred every few weeks. It usually comes with a request in all-caps that is very pointedly about Peter’s ass, but sometimes not. After a particularly massive donation, Peter sent him a quick and sincere thank you out of curiosity and appreciation, to which the ‘Captain’ responded, _“THANK ME BY BUYING YOURSELF A CUTE LIL BUTTPLUG, BABYBOI”_

Peter stared at the computer screen for a few moments, then put his shoes on and Google Maps’d the closest “marital aid” shop.

A few hours and twice as many pumps of lube later, he finally felt he really earned the five hundred dollars the Captain sent him. And Peter paid him back with photographic evidence, on the house.

And that, he thinks belatedly, is when he created a monster.

-

He doesn’t hear back from the Captain for a few days, and when he does, it’s with another sizeable payment and a link to another butt plug from an online adult toy superstore. It’s a little longer, a little thicker than the one he bought, and it arrives in non-descript packaging later that week. He features it in his next livestream and his tips skyrocket. His “regulars” start becoming a bit more regular and there is a demand for more frequent shows. He still can’t have them properly scheduled – after all, crime waits for no man and he’s damn near had to suit up with it still in his ass on more than one occasion – but he resolves to do two shows and up to three requests a week. It’s enough to keep him comfortable and then some, and leaves some wiggle room to attend to his other responsibilities.

Once he gets an abundance of positive (monetary) feedback on the toys, he gets the idea of putting together an Amazon wishlist. Different kinds of lube, a few cockrings and anal beads, small things that don’t seem so intimidating.

It shouldn’t surprise him that the Captain clears it out.

It also shouldn’t surprise him that the Captain’s requests start getting more… intensive.

No stranger to this site, he’s sent Peter messages ranging from helpful ( _“STREAM ON WEDNESDAY NIGHTS, SUITS WITH MONEY TO BURN ALWAYS LOVE A HUMPDAY PICK-ME-UP”_ ) to worrying ( _“I WAS EATING A MARS BAR TODAY AND I THOUGHT IF YOU PUT ONE IN YOUR ASS AND SOLD IT YOU’D MAKE SOME EASY MONEY. BUT WAIT TILL MY NEXT PAYCHECK XO”)_ but they began to get more direct, more targeted. Instructions on what to wear in his next stream, what toy to buy and use, where and when and how he should come. Peter doesn’t do much planning for his shows anyway, and far be it for him to deny the man who’s paying his rent, he accommodates to the best of his abilities. Besides, as crass as he is, Peter finds him kind of funny, kind of sweet. Kinda sick, too, but it’s part of his charm. He wonders, sometimes, what kind of person he is. He must be rich, blowing all this money on a kid on the internet. What does he do? How old is he? Is he lonely? Regardless, the Captain continues to be a top donor, and Peter continues to make sizeable deposits into his savings account.

The plugs the Captain requests him to use start increasing in size. It’s subtle, usually half an inch each time, nothing he can’t easily take with all the “practice” he’s getting. Peter doesn’t realize it until he lines them up in a row, face burning red as he figures out he’s being _anally trained._

And what’s worse, he’s kind of into it.

So when the Captain sends along a link to a sex shop for a real dildo – shaped like a proper cock, not a rounded or tapered plug with a flared base like he’s used to – Peter looks up the size and description and exhales slowly, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. It’s not huge, just longer and thicker than the largest plug he owns. _He knows I can take it,_ Peter thinks, ignoring a sudden stirring in his groin. It’s a thought that he can’t reconcile as troubling or comforting, probably somewhere in between.

And of course, it’d be pink and sparkly.

Peter makes the executive choice not to dwell on it.

He puts a hat and a big pair of sunglasses on, and heads out. There’s a brick-and-mortar location for that shop in Manhattan. He wants to see this thing in person.

And maybe he doesn’t have the patience to wait three to five business days for delivery.

-

He features it in his stream that night.

For the first time in months of subscribing, _CaptainDP_ joins the live chat. He sends a simple thumbs-up, and Peter can’t hide his grin, the only part of his face visible on screen. He bites his lip, playing it up for the camera.

The Captain sends an eggplant emoji in response.

-

“Do you think that Indian place on East 28th and Lexington is still open?”

Peter ducks behind a car, crouching to avoid the barrage of bullets and yelling over the noise. “What?”

“I was just thinking, I haven’t had dinner yet!”

The bullets aren’t necessarily aimed for him, but he isn’t keen on getting caught in the crossfire. Really, he crashed the shoot out because he heard the reports on his police scanner app and needed to kill time before his next live show, but he didn’t anticipate it’d go down like this, with Deadpool simultaneously taking out fifteen men while trying to hold a casual and borderline flirtatious conversation.

He knows of Deadpool, but has only ever interacted with (read: held him off from killing someone) once or twice. He’s a bit more covert with his work and mainly stays out of the way so it almost never gets reported until well after he’s cleared the scene, which could be good or bad, depending on how you look at it.

Peter peeks from behind the car, watching as he kicks, shoots, and stabs with alarming precision. No wonder the X-Men keep trying to recruit him. Police sirens blare in the distance.

“It just feels like a butter chicken kinda night, am I right?” Deadpool continues, glancing over at Peter.

He hesitates, wondering who to incapacitate. He knows these guys are mafia. The little he knows of Deadpool is that he’s a mercenary, so he’s obviously up to no good, either. But Peter can’t get a read on the situation. Should he just web them all up?

“Hey, actually, could you call them and ask? Tell them I can pick up in, oh, ten or fifteen.” Deadpool shoves a man backwards into another guy, shooting twice, the bullets going through the first and into the other.

“There are literally a dozen Indian places at that intersection,” Peter mumbles to himself, hopping over the car and launching himself on top of a van. From there he aims his shots and tries to make it as quick as possible. He pulls guns out of hands, webs ankles together, shoots at their eyes.

Deadpool is in the middle of beating someone with the end of their own rifle when Peter shoots his web at it and yanks it away.

“Spidey.” He says slowly and sternly with his hands on his hips, as if scolding a young child. “What did I say about taking things that don’t belong to you?” He pulls another gun out from god only knows where and finishes the guy off, but Peter grabs that one away, too. “Now you’re just _asking_ to get spanked, young man.”

If he webs him up, he might be able to escape, and finish the rest of the guys off on his way out. If he doesn’t web him up, he’ll still finish the other guys off and escape. Peter weighs his options and sighs. “Cops will be here in a minute, get going. I’ll make sure these dudes get picked up.”

“I don’t think you understand what it is I do, y’know.” Deadpool says conversationally, having produced another gun that Peter barely has time to pull off him before he kicks a guy square in the chest. “I don’t get paid for arrests, I get paid for bodies.”

“Get a better job.” Peter says, hopping down from the van and dodging a punch from a man that runs up to him. He whacks him in the side, then the back of the knees, forcing him to the ground. “Or don’t be so sloppy with this one.”

Deadpool barks a laugh. “I happen to like a little sloppy. I could show you sometime. Wink wink.”

Behind his mask, Peter rolls his eyes. “I’m serious. Get outta here. Before I—”

While distracted, a fist connects with his side, knocking the wind out of him, and he’s barely able to stop the next one that nearly dislocates his jaw.

The man knocks Peter to the ground but is quickly pulled off him and put down with a clean shot through the neck.

Deadpool drops the guy and offers his hand out to help Peter up. “I can’t keep an eye on you _and_ work at the same time, baby boy. Keep up or keep it movin’.”

The pet name makes him shiver, makes him think of the Captain, and reminds him that he’s got a show to do.

He stands with a groan, rubbing at his side, tasting blood. “That’s definitely a bruised rib.”

“Mmm, I could go for ribs, now that you mention it.” Deadpool says thoughtfully. “Hungry?”

The flashing lights of the cop cars suddenly illuminate the dark parking lot.

“Rain check on that dinner date.” He yells over his shoulder, hopping the fence as Peter swings himself up the side of the building and around the back. He watches as Deadpool cuts through a side alley and vanishes into the darkness.

He stays up high and off the main streets as he makes his way home, wincing as his aching side hits the windowsill when he shimmies into his apartment. He peels off his suit and tosses it into the laundry basket, inspecting the damage in the bathroom mirror. He spits blood into the sink, pokes at his busted lip, and frowns at the faint hint of a bruise above his hip. It’ll heal by morning, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less now.

He has a long, hot shower, shaves a little, and is soon perched on his bed, webcam on. He’s sore, but his adrenaline is up and he knows he’ll get a solid night’s sleep after he crashes. Taking himself in hand, he exhales, dropping his chin to his chest.

 _‘What happened to your lip?’_ Someone inquires in the chat.

Peter flicks his tongue out and licks at the cut. “I have a pretty feisty cat.” He lies easily. He always has some dumb explanation when he shows up anywhere looking like he just got hit by a train, even though that’s really only happened once. It’s nearly impossible to hide anything on screen, though.

For a moment, the chat is flooded with sad faces, people offering to kiss it better.

“I’m fine, guys, really.” He says, reaching across his bed for his lube and one of the larger plugs he has. “I heal quick.” _Ain’t that the truth._

There is a lull in the comments while he squirts lube onto his fingers, warming it up. As he sits up to turn over onto his hands and knees, he glances at the chat and a familiar name pops up.

**_CaptainDP:_ ** _WHAT ABOUT THAT BRUISE ON UR SIDE_

Self-consciously, Peter turns the other way. “I tripped and fell.” He shrugs. “I’m kinda clumsy.” He elaborates with a shy smile.

**_CaptainDP:_ ** _GET SOME ICE ON THAT, BABYBOI_

“Will do.” He snorts, finally positioning himself with his ass to the camera. He ignores the rest of the comments for a while, throwing himself into the feeling of his fingers inside him, following by the delicious stretch of a plug. When he comes, his core tenses, and he moans from the intensity of the pleasure and pain.

By the time the stream ends and he shuts his webcam off, he has another link and request from the Captain. It’s several hundred dollars for another dildo from the same shop, again, longer and thicker than the last one. But this time, for the first time, his request has a due date.

_“TOMORROW NIGHT?”_

Peter considers his schedule for the next day. He’s got class till three, the shop closes at nine. Though he streams his shows with a ring light and soft boxes, he prefers the look of natural daylight for his photos and videos. If he can grab the toy by four, he’ll still have a couple hours of sun to work with, then a bit of quick editing. A romantic dusk photoshoot of his ass.

 _“Done.”_ He replies.

-

He grabs a bagel after class, and the weather is good so decides to walk the half hour to _The Toybox_. The sun is shining, he has his headphones in, and he pets three dogs on his way. As he rounds the corner, he puts his hood up and sunglasses on. He notices a guy sitting in the shade on a stoop across the street, who also has his hood up and sunglasses on, hands shoved into his pockets. Maybe he’s trying to find the courage to walk into the store, too.

Just because Peter’s shown his entire gaping asshole on camera, doesn’t mean he’s still not a little shy about walking out of a sex shop. But at least he can bring himself to go in now, instead of ordering online.

Baby steps.

He locates the dildo on a shelf, noting that it comes in three different colours. Peter checks his inbox again and finds that the Captain didn’t specify, so he picks out a purple one – the last one of that colour in stock – and pays in cash. The package goes right into his backpack before he heads out.

Once he wanders back down the block, the man sitting on the stoop gets up and crosses the street towards the store, presumably after getting the nerve to do so.

 _Good for him_ , Peter thinks.

-

He’s out of commission a few days later, because even with the fully assembled Avengers, fighting an army of rampaging robots is still more work than he expects. He was thrown around, beat down, and at one point, pinned under the collapsed wall of a building. Gwen wordlessly tends to the crisscrossing patterns of gashes, scrapes, and burns all over him while he’s laid up in bed, eyes full of worry but never asking more than Peter wants to tell her. She kisses him on the forehead, above a singed eyebrow. “Soup.” She says. He nods, throat too sore from screaming.

While she’s busy in his kitchen, his phone pings; an email notification that tells him he received a ten-dollar request from the Captain. After spending hours fighting alongside Captain America, he grimaces, hoping it’s not him. The idea of wholesome, white-bread Steve Rogers asking him to _‘spread his cheeks and tie a ribbon around his balls like a present’_ … He doesn’t know how he can ever look him in the eyes again.

 _“ASS PIC ASAP (PLZ)”_ , the message reads. He’s been asking for toy pics so much recently, this one kind of surprises Peter.

 _“Unfortunately I won’t be able to fulfill this for a few days. I was in a car accident. I’m fine, just a bit bruised and shaken. Not very sexy.”_ He types out, sends it, and gets a response a few minutes later while he scrolls through his Instagram feed.

_“_ _:( GET WELL SOON. ACCEPT THE REQUEST ANYWAY, USE IT FOR PIZZA!!”_

_“Thank you, but I wouldn’t feel right about that. I’ll have the request filled by the end of the week. And I’m getting soup made, so don’t worry about me.”_

The reply comes in soon after. _“WHAT KIND?”_

It occurs to Peter that this is the most they’ve ever spoken about something that wasn’t work-related. Their interactions have always been strictly about requests or ideas for streams, and usually wrap up in two or three messages. For such a crude man, the Captain always kept it professional, but Peter couldn’t help but wonder about him. In months of back and forth, they knew nothing about each other.

_“Chicken noodle, I think. I hope.”_

_“A CLASSIC. I HAVEN’T HAD A HOMECOOKED MEAL IN YEARS”_

Peter drums his fingers on his stomach, wondering what to say. Does he not have a family? Does he live alone? He guesses rich guys don’t really have to cook. Before he can answer, the Captain shoots another message.

_“YOUR BF/GF A GOOD COOK?”_

_“I don’t have either of those, just a best friend whose way too good to me.”_ He pauses. _“I’m guessing your partner doesn’t cook, either.”_

He doesn’t realize how anxiously he’s awaiting the Captain’s next email until he realizes he’s mindlessly scrolling though his feed, not taking anything in, and immediately opens up the notification when it pops up.

_“NO TIME FOR THAT IN MY LINE OF WORK. HARD TO FIND SOMEONE WHO CAN KEEP UP”_

_So he’s a workaholic who travels a lot_ , Peter decides. It makes sense. That’s why he’s so lonely. That’s why he spends his time and money spoiling a faceless kid. That’s why he can’t get attached. Peter knows the feeling too well, with the added bonus of the fear that any partner he has will immediately have a target painted on their back.

 _“I get it. I’m kind of in the same boat. Hard to date people who aren’t the same as me. But we’ll figure it out.”_ He sends the reply as Gwen comes back in, a steaming bowl in one hand and a glass of ice water in the other. He grins fondly at her, and she returns it, and he feels immensely thankful that she’ll never get hurt because of him. Peter spends the rest of the night catching up with her and watching dumb rom-coms on Netflix, and misses the Captain’s next message.

_“YES WE WILL :)_ _”_

-

Reports of an armed robbery, hostage situation, and _“some red-suited maniac with swords!”_ catch Peter’s attention, one afternoon when he’s finishing up a paper. He’d only just seen Deadpool two weeks ago, but it was a solid ten months between then and the time before that. _Maybe he really_ is _getting sloppy._ Peter turns the volume up on the police radio to try and catch the location while pulling his suit on, which ends up being a major bank downtown.

“You again, huh?” He says, crashing through a high window to find that Deadpool is already katana-deep in two masked men, simultaneously.

“Player two has entered the game!” Deadpool exclaims, artfully dodging gunfire by ducking behind a table. Peter throws out his hands, knocking the gun out of one man’s grasp and webbing him to the wall.

“Thanks, sweetums, but I’ve got this! Really!” Deadpool continues, standing up as another man runs at him, disarming him with a few sharp hits and slamming his face into the desk. “Why don’t you go back home and get started on dinner? But don’t wait up for me. Daddy’s working late tonight.” He pulls his swords out of the two men just in time to slide them through another.

“Stop!” Peter yells, apprehending a man who tries to sneak up behind him with well-aimed punches and a solid kick to the the stomach, sending him crashing backwards. He spots the hostages, wrists and ankles zip-tied and gagged with bandannas, huddled in the centre of the room and herded by two men with shotguns. He yanks the weapons out of their hands with his webs, but not before they pull the triggers, startling the hostages even more as they scrambled backwards. “Sorry,” He says to them apologetically, throwing one of the guys into the other. They hit the wall and slide down in a heap. “Just knock them out, don’t kill them!”

“Same thing,” Deadpool insists, now running after someone else, who is shooting at him from behind a corner. “One’s just a little more permanent!”

“Deadpool!” Peter yells again, shooting webs at the hanging chandeliers and swinging after him. “Subdue them! Incapacitate! Or else I’ll tie you up, too, I swear to god—”

He finds Deadpool straddling the guy he was chasing, pounding his face in. His head cracks sickeningly against the marble. “You know I love it when you talk dirty to me!”

Peter throws his webbing at Deadpool’s shoulder harness and pulls hard, making him skid across the floor.

“Hey!” Deadpool reaches behind him and slices at the webbing with a knife he pulls out of another sheath. “No offense, but I’m almost done here, and it’d just be way easier to let me handle—” Peter webs the gun out of his other hand, that he produces from another holster. How is he so fast when he’s got sixty different weapons strapped to him at all times? “Goddamnit, Spidey!” He grabs another gun out of a thigh holster and aims it over Peter’s shoulder.

Without looking, Peter casts a net behind him, and hears a muffled yelp and a thud.

“Touché.” Deadpool grumbles, getting to his feet. “But really, I gotta take them out. There’s a little girl hogtied over there who’s family is depending on me to deliver. I’ll make it fast. One clean shot each, that’s all I ask. You understand, right?”

“No.” Peter says firmly, walking towards him. “I’m kicking them out the front doors for the police to handle. And you are going to leave before they arrest you, too.”

“But—”

“No.”

“ _But—”_

_“No.”_

With a dramatic sigh, Deadpool tucks his gun away. “Ah, well. This was all just to get your attention, anyway.”

“My—what?” Peter says.

In a split-second, Deadpool dives at him, wrapping his arms around Peter and whirling them around. He experiences a moment of panic as he hears the booming of gunshots, feels Deadpool’s arms stiffen around him, and sees one of the men he thought he knocked out, standing across the room with his weapon drawn and ready to fire again.

“For fuck’s sake,” Deadpool grunts. “I literally just washed this suit last night.” He sags against Peter and Peter holds one arm around him to hold him up, the other outstretched to shoot webbing at the gunman’s eyes, mouth, the hand holding the gun, and feet in quick succession. The final string of webbing wrapped around his ankles, the momentum knocking him down.

He turns his attention back to Deadpool, who’s blood is soaking through both their suits. “Are you okay? You’re okay, right? You’re gonna heal? You’re gonna be alright?” Peter asks hurriedly, lowering him to the ground. The panic returns when Deadpool erupts in a fit of wet, hacking coughs in lieu of a response. Blood begins to seep through the front of his mask, darkening the area where his mouth would be. “Deadpool? Shit, talk to me.”

“Yes, yes, yes, and yes.” He finally rasps. “Though he got a pretty good shot at my lungs and spine.” He sputters between coughs. “It’s always a bitch regenerating those.”

“I—I don’t know what to do,” Peter admits, dropping to his knees. “You saved me.” He says suddenly.

“I did, didn’t I?” Deadpool says, nonchalant as though discussing the weather and not the fact that he just took several bullets for him. “Well, dropping me off somewhere where I can sleep this off like a bad hangover would be a good place to start,” He tries to sit up but is immediately pushed back down by Peter’s hands against his chest. “A nice cozy rooftop, maybe. Or a park within walking distance of a Mexican food truck. For when my legs start to regain feeling.”

“Your legs—You can’t walk?”

“‘Fraid not, baby boy. I’m Charles Xavier on a Cuban beach for the next couple of hours.”

Peter frowns. “Do you have a safe house nearby?”

“Uh. Yeah.” Deadpool answers haltingly. “I do. But. Ah, fuck.”

“Then I’ll take you there.” After a moment’s pause, Peter gets up. “Gimme two minutes. I’m gonna deal with this.” He begins uncertainly. “And then I’ll get you out of here. Just… Don’t move.”

“Couldn’t if I wanted to.” Deadpool says hoarsely.

Peter works quickly to undo zip-ties and ungag hostages, sending them out the door with instructions to tell the police outside to come in and take the remaining men into custody, and get medical attention for the rest (or what was left of them). When he gets back to Deadpool, he has already army-crawled over to the pile of duffle bags the men had been guarding, unzipping one and grabbing wads of cash.

“Jesus Christ.” Exasperated, Peter picks him up by the armpits and settles him against his back.

“I prefer Deadpool, actually.”

“Ha ha.” He says flatly, arranging Deadpool’s arms around his neck. He lifts him a little and wraps his legs around his middle, webbing Deadpool’s legs together to keep them locked in place. It takes some effort, as Deadpool is five inches taller and probably has forty pounds more muscle, but Peter manages, much to Deadpool’s delight.

“If I had known that taking a couple hits for you would get me a front row seat to Spidey’s backside, I would’ve done it ages ago!” He laments, holding tight as Peter scales the wall towards the open window he came in through. “Lucky I don’t have any feeling from my bellybutton down. Or unlucky, depending on how generous you’re feeling.”

“Not very.” He says through gritted teeth. As soon as they make it out of the building and Deadpool coughs his way through the address, they take off swinging. He continues a strained conversation that seems like it was mostly to himself, which Peter was content with tuning out. He was more interested in focussing on adjusting his technique to accommodate for the added weight, narrowly missing smashing into windows and fire escapes before they get to a large window, halfway up a building.

Peter reaches out to pull it open, but Deadpool grabs his wrist and stills it for a moment. “Wait.”

Peter turns his head to look over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I, uh—I have to tell you something.”

The hesitant, almost panicked way he speaks makes Peter uneasy. “At the bank. You said you were trying to get my attention.” He remembers. “Why?”

Deadpool takes a deep breath. “Get inside. Let me just say, I was just as surprised as you’re going to be in about two seconds.” He pushes the window open and Peter crawls them inside, careful to not let Deadpool hit anything on the way in.

It’s a studio apartment, empty of furniture, save for a futon in the corner with a laptop on top of it. There are backpacks, guns, and boxes of ammo strewn across the floor. A sagging cardboard box of civilian clothes leans against the wall, and a familiar pair of dark sunglasses sit atop a large, locked safe beside the box. The bare essentials for a safe house, Peter assumes.

Except for the massive poster of an bare ass looking back at him from across the room.

His own ass, he realizes, freezing in place. The first request he ever filled. He swallows hard. “Explain.”

Behind him, still clinging to his back, Deadpool clears his throat. “Yep.” He says softly. “Wanna do that dinner date now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Hello. Please don't hate me. It seems I'm writing again.
> 
> I started writing a bunch of Stucky fics while I preemptively mourn them in Infinity War (I already have one posted if you'd like to check that out!) but I remembered that DP2 comes out right after. I'm just not into Cablepool, you know? And I take back what I said about "ignoring whoever Marvel cast as Spider-Man", because Tom Holland is the sweetest and cutest thing since pre-serum Steve Rogers. But he's too young for Deadpool. So we soldier on. 
> 
> If anyone is interested in being my beta reader, either for this fic or for all my work in general (which will include Stucky and Thorki, mostly), please let me know. 
> 
> And hit me up on [tumblr](http://whitewulfs.tumblr.com) if you want to yell at me for disappearing and threaten me not to do it again, that's totally fine. A huge thank you to everyone who’s sticking with this story, I don’t deserve you!


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